Of all the rooms in the great castle
Etta liked the morning-room best. Persons of
a troubled mind usually love to look upon a wide prospect.
The mind, no doubt, fears the unseen approach of detection
or danger, and transmits this dread to the eye, which
likes to command a wide view all around.

The great drawing-room was only used
after dinner. Until that time the ladies spent
the day either in their own boudoirs or in the
morning-room looking over the cliff. Here, while
the cold weather lasted, Etta had tea served, and
thither the gentlemen usually repaired at the hour
set apart for the homely meal. They had come
regularly the last few evenings. Paul and Steinmetz
had suddenly given up their long drives to distant
parts of the estate.

Here the whole party was assembled
on the Sunday afternoon following Paul’s visit
to the village kabak, and to them came an unexpected
guest. The door was thrown open, and Claude de
Chauxville, pale, but self-possessed and quiet, came
into the room. The perfect ease of his manner
bespoke a practised familiarity with the position difficult.
His last parting with Paul and Steinmetz had been,
to say the least of it, strained. Maggie, he
knew, disliked and distrusted him. Etta hated
and feared him.

He was in riding costume ­a
short fur jacket, fur gloves, a cap in his hand, and
a silver-mounted crop. A fine figure of a man ­smart,
well turned out, well-groomed ­a gentleman.

“Prince,” he said frankly,
“I have come to throw myself upon your generosity.
Will you lend me a horse? I was riding in the
forest when my horse fell over a root and lamed himself.
I found I was only three miles from Osterno, so I
came. My misfortune must be my excuse for this ­intrusion.”

Paul performed graciously enough that
which charity and politeness demanded of him.
There are plenty of people who trade unscrupulously
upon these demands, but it is probable that they mostly
have their reward. Love and friendship are stronger
than charity and politeness, and those who trade upon
the latter are rarely accorded the former.

So Paul ignored the probability that
De Chauxville had lamed his horse on purpose, and
offered him refreshment while his saddle was being
transferred to the back of a fresh mount. Farther
than that he did not go. He did not consider
himself called upon to offer a night’s hospitality
to the man who had attempted to murder him a week before.

With engaging frankness De Chauxville
accepted every thing. It is an art soon acquired
and soon abused. There is something honest in
an ungracious acceptance of favors. Steinmetz
suggested that perhaps M. de Chauxville had lunched
sparsely, and the Frenchman admitted that such was
the case, but that he loved afternoon tea above all
meals.

“It is so innocent and simple ­I
know. I have the same feeling myself,”
concurred Steinmetz courteously.

“Do you ride about the country
much alone?” asked Paul, while the servants
were setting before this uninvited guest a few more
substantial delicacies.

“Ah, no, prince! This is
my first attempt, and if it had not procured me this
pleasure I should say that it will be my last.”

“It is easy to lose yourself,”
said Paul; “besides” ­and the
two friends watched the Frenchman’s face closely ­“besides,
the country is disturbed at present.”

De Chauxville was helping himself
daintily to pate de foie gras.

“Ah, indeed! Is that so?”
he answered. “But they would not hurt me ­a
stranger in the land.”

“And an orphan, too, I have
no doubt,” added Steinmetz, with a laugh.
“But would the moujik pause to enquire, my very
dear De Chauxville?”

“At all events, I should not
pause to answer,” replied the Frenchman, in
the same, light tone. “I should evacuate.
Ah, mademoiselle,” he went on, addressing Maggie,
“they have been attempting to frighten you, I
suspect, with their stories of disturbed peasantry.
It is to keep up the lurid local color. They
must have their romance, these Russians.”

And so the ball was kept rolling.
There was never any lack of conversation when Steinmetz
and De Chauxville were together, nor was the talk
without sub-flavor of acidity. At length the centre
of attention himself diverted that attention.
He inaugurated an argument over the best cross-country
route from Osterno to Thors, which sent Steinmetz out
of the room for a map. During the absence of the
watchful German he admired the view from the window,
and this strategetic movement enabled him to say to
Etta aside:

“I must see you before I leave
the house; it is absolutely necessary.”

Not long after the return of Steinmetz
and the final decision respecting the road to Thors,
Etta left the room, and a few minutes later the servant
announced that the baron’s horse was at the door.

De Chauxville took his leave at once,
with many assurances of lasting gratitude.

“Kindly,” he added, “make
my adieux to the princess; I will not trouble her.”

Quite by accident he met Etta at the
head of the state staircase, and expressed such admiration
for the castle that she opened the door of the large
drawing-room and took him to see that apartment.

“What I arranged for Thursday
is for the day after to-morrow ­Tuesday,”
said De Chauxville, as soon as they were alone.
“We cannot keep them back any longer. You
understand ­the side door to be opened at
seven o’clock. Ah! who is this?”

They both turned. Steinmetz was
standing behind them, but he could not have heard
De Chauxville’s words. He closed the door
carefully, and came forward with his grim smile.

“A nous trois!” he said,
and the subsequent conversation was in the language
in which these three understood each other best.

De Chauxville bit his lip and waited.
It was a moment of the tensest suspense.

“A nous trois!” repeated
Steinmetz. “De Chauxville, you love an epigram.
The man who overestimates the foolishness of others
is himself the biggest fool concerned. A lame
horse ­the prince’s generosity ­making
your adieux. Mon Dieu! you should know me better
than that after all these years. No, you need
not look at the door. No one will interrupt us.
I have seen to that.”

His attitude and manner indicated
a complete mastery of the situation, but whether this
assumption was justified by fact or was a mere trick
it was impossible to say. There was in the man
something strong and good and calm ­a manner
never acquired by one who has anything to conceal.
His dignity was perfect. One forgot his stoutness,
his heavy breathing, his ungainly size. He was
essentially manly, and a presence to be feared.
The strength of his will made itself felt.

He turned to the princess with the
grave courtesy that always marked his attitude toward
her.

“Madame,” he said, “I
fully recognize your cleverness in raising yourself
to the position you now occupy. But I would remind
you that that position carries with it certain obligations.
It is hardly dignified for a princess to engage herself
in a vulgar love intrigue in her own house.”

“It is not a vulgar love intrigue!”
cried Etta, with blazing eyes. “I will
not allow you to say that! Where is your boasted
friendship? Is this a sample of it?”

Karl Steinmetz bowed gravely, with outspread hands.

“Madame, that friendship is at your service,
now as always.”

De Chauxville gave a scornful little
laugh. He was biting the end of his mustache
as he watched Etta’s face. For a moment
the woman stood ­not the first woman to
stand thus ­between two fears. Then
she turned to Steinmetz. The victory was his ­the
greatest he had ever torn from the grasp of Claude
de Chauxville.

“You know,” she said, “that this
man has me in his power.”

“You alone. But not both of us together,”
answered Steinmetz.

De Chauxville looked uneasy. He gave a careless
little laugh.

“My good Steinmetz, you allow
your imagination to run away with you. You interfere
in what does not concern you.”

“My very dear De Chauxville,
I think not. At all events, I am going to continue
to interfere.”

Etta looked from one to the other.
She had at the first impulse gone over to Steinmetz.
She was now meditating drawing back. If De Chauxville
kept cool all might yet be well ­the dread
secret of the probability of Sydney Bamborough being
alive might still be withheld from Steinmetz.
For the moment it would appear that she was about to
occupy the ignominious position of the bone of contention.
If these two men were going to use her as a mere excuse
to settle a lifelong quarrel of many issues, it was
probable that there would not be much left of her
character by the time that they had finished.

She had to decide quickly. She
decided to assume the rôle of peacemaker.

“M. de Chauxville was on the
point of going,” she said. “Let him
go.”

“M. de Chauxville is not going
until I have finished with him, madame.
This may be the last time we meet. I hope it is.”

De Chauxville looked uneasy.
His was a ready wit, and fear was the only feeling
that paralyzed it. Etta looked at him. Was
his wit going to desert him now when he most needed
it? He had ridden boldly into the lion’s
den. Such a proceeding requires a certain courage,
but a higher form of intrepidity is required to face
the lion standing before the exit.

De Chauxville looked at Steinmetz
with shifty eyes. He was very like the mask of
the lynx in the smoking-room, even to the self-conscious,
deprecatory smile on the countenance of the forest
sneak.

“Keep your temper,” he
said; “do not let us quarrel in the presence
of a lady.”

“No; we will keep the quarrel till afterward.”

Steinmetz turned to Etta.

“Princess,” he said, “will
you now, in my presence, forbid this man to come to
this or any other house of yours? Will you forbid
him to address himself either by speech or letter
to you again?”

“You know I cannot do that,” replied Etta.

“Why not?”

Etta made no answer.

“Because,” replied De
Chauxville for her, “the princess is too wise
to make an enemy of me. In that respect she is
wiser than you. She knows that I could send you
and your prince to Siberia.”

Steinmetz laughed.

“Nonsense!” he said.
“Princess,” he went on, “if you think
that the fact of De Chauxville numbering among his
friends a few obscure police spies gives him the right
to persecute you, you are mistaken. Our friend
is very clever, but he can do no harm with the little
that he knows of the Charity League.”

Etta remained silent. The silence made Steinmetz
frown.

“Princess,” he said gravely,
“you were indignant just now because I made
so bold as to put the most natural construction upon
the circumstances in which I found you. It was
a prearranged meeting between De Chauxville and yourself.
If the meeting was not the outcome of an intrigue such
as I mentioned, nor the result of this man’s
hold over you on account of the Charity League, what
was it? I beg of you to answer.”

Etta made no reply. Instead,
she raised her eyes and looked at De Chauxville.

“Without going into affairs
which do not concern you,” said the Frenchman,
answering for her, “I think you will recognize
that the secret of the Charity League was quite sufficient
excuse for me to request a few minutes alone with
the princess.”

Of this Steinmetz took no notice.
He was standing in front of Etta, between De Chauxville
and the door. His broad, deeply lined face was
flushed with the excitement of the moment. His
great mournful eyes, yellow and drawn with much reading
and the hardships of a rigorous climate, were fixed
anxiously on her face.

Etta was not looking at him.
Her eyes were turned toward the window, but they did
not see with comprehension. She was stony and
stubborn.

“Princess,” said Steinmetz,
“answer me before it is too late. Has De
Chauxville any other hold over you?”

Etta nodded, and the little action
brought a sudden gleam to the Frenchman’s eyes.

“If,” said Steinmetz,
looking from one to the other, “if you two have
been deceiving Paul I will have no mercy, I warn you
of that.”

Etta turned on him.

“Can you not believe me?”
she cried. “I have practised no deception
in common with M. de Chauxville.”

“The Charity League is quite
enough for you, my friend,” put in the Frenchman
hurriedly.

“You know no more of the Charity
League than you did before ­than the whole
world knew before ­except this lady’s
share in the disposal of the papers,” said Steinmetz.

“And this lady’s share
in the disposal of the papers will not be welcome
news to the prince,” answered De Chauxville.

“Welcome or unwelcome, he shall be told of it
to-night.”

Etta looked round sharply, her lips apart and trembling.

“By whom?” asked De Chauxville.

“By me,” replied Steinmetz.

There was a momentary pause.
De Chauxville and Etta exchanged a glance. Etta
felt that she was lost. This Frenchman was not
one to spare either man or woman from any motive of
charity or chivalry.

“Even if that is so,”
he said, “the princess is not relieved from the
embarrassment of her situation.”

“No?”

“No, my astute friend.
There is a little matter connected with Sydney Bamborough
which has come to my knowledge.”

Etta moved, but she said nothing.
The sound of her breathing was startlingly loud.

“Ah! Sydney Bamborough,”
said Steinmetz slowly. “What about him?”

“He is not dead; that is all.”

Karl Steinmetz passed his broad hand
down over his face, covering his mouth for a second.

“But he died. He was found
on the steppe, and buried at Tver.”

“So the story runs,” said
De Chauxville, with easy sarcasm. “But who
found him on the steppe? Who buried him at Tver?”

“I did, my friend.”

The next second Steinmetz staggered
back a step or two as Etta fell heavily into his arms.
But he never took his eyes off De Chauxville.

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